<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A December to Remember by Ludicrous</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408107">A December to Remember</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous'>Ludicrous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Magic, POV Mycroft Holmes, Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:22:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28408107</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludicrous/pseuds/Ludicrous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had expected this December to be like all the others - one month of faking Christmas cheer and seeing more of his relatives than he would wish.</p>
<p>This year, however, a magical flyer seems to have other ideas - ideas which bring Mycroft closer and closer to a certain Gregory Lestrade...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>12 Days of Mystrade and Friends</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 'Tis the season</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/meddowstaylor/gifts">aleclestrade (meddowstaylor)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Carla, who accepted to be both a cheerleader and a wonderful beta - a million thanks for bringing new ideas and transforming this story into a better version &lt;3 it wouldn't have been the same without you</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>December 2nd</em>
</p>
<p>Mycroft twirled his pen in his fingers, resisting the urge to sigh. The meeting had started fifty minutes ago and so far, they had barely finished exchanging pleasantries. Delicate pastries had been laid out in the middle of the table for their comfort — Mycroft had been glaring at them for forty-eight minutes and thirty seconds.</p>
<p>Next to him, Anthea had stopped taking notes — a bad sign. Thankfully, she refrained from making any comment. She stood, sent a loaded glance Mycroft’s way and disappeared in the next room.</p>
<p>Sometime between Mrs Parkin’s monologue and Mr Khatri’s dry joke, Anthea reappeared. As she sat back down, she put a cup before Mycroft. The comforting aroma of tea reached his nostrils and he allowed himself a slight smile.</p>
<p>After two more hours of insipid conversation, Mycroft was free to go home. He barely took two steps before slipping on a patch of ice. He steadied himself with a frown before striding to the waiting car.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid there is nothing we can do against the weather, sir,” Anthea said beside him.</p>
<p>“It would seem so,” Mycroft quipped. He eyed the clouds overhead through the car window. They looked suspiciously white.</p>
<p>“December is not all bad,” Anthea added in an uncertain voice. “London should get some snow this year, sir.”</p>
<p>Mycroft rolled his eyes. </p>
<p>“Snow means more traffic on the roads and beatific smiles on everyone’s faces.”</p>
<p>“Careful, sir, one would think that you hated Christmas time.”</p>
<p>Mycroft sniffed and scrolled on his phone to answer an email. Anthea could call him a cynic all she wanted, but there was no denying that Christmas was a wretched time of year. Having first to think of a gift he had not yet given to his family members, being forced to spend time with the entirety of his family in one sitting and signing endless cards for his colleagues… The thought alone made him shudder. </p>
<p>The only redeeming quality of the season was the hot chocolate — yet he would enjoy it better if he didn’t have to suffer through Sherlock’s petty remarks.</p>
<p>“Yes, I wouldn’t want to damage my reputation as a festive party-goer,” Mycroft remarked dryly after some time had passed.</p>
<p>Mycroft was ready for another insipid month - one where he would feign Christmas cheer and fake a sudden passion for oysters. </p>
<p>The truth was, this year would be vastly different.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <em>December 3rd</em>
</p>
<p>It all started the next day. </p>
<p>Mycroft had gone to the shops early, hoping to avoid the crowds. Unfortunately, leaving Christmas shopping until the last possible minute meant there was no avoiding the crowds of anxious shoppers. It was worse than the sales - customers pushed and squeezed past him on all sides, their bags brushing against his legs.</p>
<p>Mycroft cursed his own indolence - a week ago, the same shops would have been filled with interesting choices and mercifully void of this rabble. He vowed to delegate the gift-buying ordeal to an employee, come next year.</p>
<p>Thankfully, Mycroft had experience in doing things efficiently. He moved gracefully between the aisles, picked up the right gifts, a few Christmas cards, and got to the till in record time. Checking his watch, Mycroft realized that he had been one minute and twenty-seven seconds faster than last year. He accorded himself a slight smile for this personal achievement.</p>
<p>Once outside, Mycroft juggled the different bags and craned his neck to see the usual black sedan. His height allowed him to see over passersby’s heads but there was so much traffic that it was almost impossible to discern any particular car. </p>
<p>Mycroft was so focused on his task that it took him a long time to notice the bright green elf stalking towards him. He usually avoided clowns, human-shaped bananas and any and all kinds of mascots. This time, however, his inattention was his demise.</p>
<p>“Good morning, sir, can I interest you in—”</p>
<p>Mycroft looked around wildly. Some paces away, a couple was nodding politely to whatever another elf was saying. They had the haggard look of those whose mind has wandered elsewhere aeons ago. </p>
<p>Mycroft looked back at the elf in front of him. They were still talking, all the while brandishing some kind of flyer.</p>
<p>Once one had some experience in posh dinners and being kidnapped, one developed a natural instinct to find a straight path to the exit. Mycroft had both his mother and his work to thank for his own talents in that particular area of expertise.</p>
<p>This skill allowed Mycroft to escape gracefully. He quickly grabbed one of the flyers, spread out in gratitude and fled the scene. Once the elf had recovered from their shock, Mycroft was already rounding the corner - where a sleek, black car waited for him.</p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Quicksand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once he got home, Mycroft got rid of the flyer and didn’t think more of it. He spent some blissful hours working without anything reminding him of the upcoming holiday. </p>
<p>Despite Anthea’s insistence, he categorically refused to decorate his house with ridiculous garlands. If he had to endure the endless ads and the dazzling lights on the Christmas tree at the office, he deserved some rest from it all once he was home.</p>
<p>When Once his head hit the pillow, the only thoughts swirling in his head were for the suit he would don the next day and for the presentation that he would make.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <em>December 4th</em>
</p>
<p>In the morning, however, his carefully-elaborated plans had to be discarded.</p>
<p>When Mycroft opened his eyes, he got up and walked towards the kitchen. Even in his half-awake state, he perceived something was wrong. He stopped for a few moments but heard only silence. </p>
<p>When he reached the stove, he caught a fluttering sound coming from behind him. He whirled around.</p>
<p>There, on the wall before him, a bright-pink flyer was plastered. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at it, but the force of his glowering didn’t make it disappear - <em>it must be made of stronger stuff than politicians</em>.</p>
<p>On it was written: <strong>Don’t forget to smile today!</strong></p>
<p>Mycroft frowned at the bright, bold letters. He vaguely wondered if one of his employees had thought this was a good joke — they could have found the flyer lying around and decided their boss could benefit from the advice on it. Well, the <em>boss </em>was not impressed with their childish sense of humour.</p>
<p>Mycroft fished his phone out of the pocket of his dressing-gown and typed out a message in rapid-fire motions. </p>
<p>‘Did someone access my house last night? MH’</p>
<p>The answer came right away: ‘No, sir. Is something wrong?’</p>
<p>Mycroft sighed. He knew that no matter his answer, Anthea would spend the rest of the day worrying about the security of his house.</p>
<p>‘Please dismiss the previous message. Culprit found. MH’</p>
<p>Mycroft attached a picture of Cashmere to the message and sent it. Anthea could read him better than anyone but even she couldn’t read his mind just from a text.</p>
<p>And really, she would sooner believe this than the real explanation — that a flyer had seemingly flown from the trash onto Mycroft’s kitchen wall.</p>
<p>“Apologies, my dear,” Mycroft said to the cat, petting her. “You have been an angel.”</p>
<p>Cashmere just stared at him with an accusatory eye. Mycroft mentally noted to give her some tuna that night.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The morning passed in relative quiet. Meetings and calls followed one another, as they did every day. </p>
<p>As the hours passed, it became increasingly clear that this was not a good day for Mr Holmes. The stupidity of his colleagues seemed to have reached a new level overnight. And every time Mycroft remembered the flyer’s message, his frown became more accentuated. </p>
<p>If the elf had hoped to spread some holiday cheer, her plan had backfired terribly. Mycroft despised being told what to do— especially by a green message on a bright-pink piece of paper. One had never seen a worse colour combination.</p>
<p>At lunchtime, Mycroft disposed of his salad in a hurry — he only had ten minutes before his most important meeting of the day, after all.</p>
<p>Anthea brought him the burgundy tie — the lucky one which had granted him such success in Tokyo.</p>
<p>“Good luck, sir,” she said. She smiled encouragingly at Mycroft and pushed him towards the door.</p>
<p>Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have thrown a grateful smile her way, but he remembered the advice of the day and changed his mind. </p>
<p><em>You’re getting as obstinate as your father</em>, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother. Mycroft huffed and entered the room. There was no time for this — he had a presentation to make.</p>
<p>Once the pleasantries had been exchanged and everyone had been served a hot beverage, Mycroft stood. He took a deep breath and started his speech with confidence. </p>
<p>“And now, I have brought with me some diagrams to illustrate my point.” Mycroft reached into his briefcase.</p>
<p>It all went downhill from there. The briefcase toppled over and the diagrams were thrown across the desk. Mrs Weaver tried to salvage the papers but knocked down Mr Khan’s coffee with her elbow.</p>
<p>Mycroft watched it happen in slow motion — hours of work destroyed before his eyes. And in the middle of the diagrams and graphs, a blood orange piece of paper.</p>
<p>Mr Khan remarked it at the same time as Mycroft.</p>
<p>“Oh, and what’s this?” He asked. </p>
<p>From beneath the pile, only two lilac letters were visible.</p>
<p>‘<strong>DO</strong>’</p>
<p>Mycroft stretched out and seized the paper, aware of the flush colouring his cheeks the same colour as the damn flyer. He clutched it to his chest with an insincere smile. </p>
<p>“A drawing from my niece. She’s very - skilled.”</p>
<p>Inwardly, Mycroft addressed a silent apology to Rosie. She knew better than to mix such colours, even more so using gel-scented pens. It was an insult to her talents, really.</p>
<p>“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Holmes, I think there’s no point proceeding with this foolishness,” Mr Durand stood stiffly, his shirt dripping with cold coffee.</p>
<p>Soon, Mycroft was left alone with his miraculously dry flyer and his dark thoughts. </p>
<p>***</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Disaster</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After an hour of thorough cleaning, Mycroft’s head felt clearer. </p>
<p>Logically, he knew that a simple piece of paper couldn’t be responsible for this disaster. His cartesian mind wanted to find a rational explanation and sweep the absurd details under the rug. Yet there was something unnatural in the way the paper had changed colour, in the way it had followed Mycroft.</p>
<p>Outside the door, Anthea was waiting for him. She was casually leaning against the opposite wall, her eyes glued to her phone. Her thumbs typed out texts in a nonchalant way.</p>
<p>But Mycroft could see how her eyes skittered from one corner of the screen to the other, and the way her entire posture was stiff and practised. She had seen the others leave, had probably heard dozens of offhand comments. And yet she had waited outside, knowing that her boss needed space.</p>
<p>“This meeting was a disaster. Please send out apology notes to everyone invited. Oh and some complementary tie for Mr Durand, I’m afraid his is ruined.”</p>
<p>“Already done, sir. I’ve added a bouquet of lilacs for Mrs Weaver, she seemed quite shocked.”</p>
<p>Mycroft nodded once, gripped his briefcase tighter and said: “Thank you for your efficiency. Don’t forget to take your holidays next week.”</p>
<p>“But you said —”</p>
<p>Mycroft waved aside her argument with a sweep of his hand.</p>
<p>“You deserve some proper holidays. At least five days, I won’t tolerate anything less.”</p>
<p>Mycroft ignored her words of thanks and stalked down the corridor. He had had plenty of time to think, and he had a plan.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Mycroft stared at the paper in his hands. It had gone back to its original colours and stayed motionless in his hands. It looked perfectly harmless — there were no explosions of magical glitter or glowing lights. </p>
<p>Nobody was currently using the storage room — the task was usually reserved for interns and naive trainees. One learned early on that the specks of dust covering the entirety of the room were very difficult to get out of a fancy suit.</p>
<p>The solitude was a blessing for Mycroft. It meant that he could use the shredder without being asked about it.</p>
<p>He quickly put the flyer through the shredder, hoping the noise wouldn’t raise any suspicions. He had a story ready in case someone came through the door. It proved pointless, however - everyone had started their meetings of the afternoon, and the corridors were completely empty.</p>
<p>Mycroft took up work with renewed ardour. Neither the accident of the morning nor the promise of a meeting with his brother that night could put a dent in his enthusiasm. He was finally free of the cursed paper, and with it, he had put an end to the Christmas frivolities in his life. </p>
<p>His relief was short-lived. Soon after three, Mr Emil Vincent opened the door of Mycroft’s office, only to be swarmed in what looked like a small army of post-its. They rushed towards Mycroft, buzzing and flapping all the way.</p>
<p>Mycroft’s hand was getting closer to his panic button when the post-its all dropped to his desk and stayed still. </p>
<p>For a moment, they both stood silent and breathed — Emil Vincent with his hand still on the doorknob, his face pale and drawn; Mycroft behind his desk, his hand clasped around his panic button like a lifeline.</p>
<p>“Anthea?” Mycroft called. To his satisfaction, his voice sounded calm and put-together. “Please arrange for some tea for poor Mr Vincent.”</p>
<p>Once alone, Mycroft dared to look down at his desk. He realized that what he had taken to be post-its were really pieces of the same paper. They had flopped on his desk and once together, the message scribbled on it was clear: <strong>DON’T forget to smile today!</strong></p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Mycroft breathed out. Fine. <em>Fine</em>. If this was how this was going to go, two could play at this little game. If some unknown force wanted him to smile, he <em>would </em>smile.</p>
<p>Mycroft went out in the hallway, his lips stretched in a manic smile.</p>
<p>“And how is that poor fellow? He seemed quite shaken.”</p>
<p>Anthea stared at him for a beat longer than necessary, before replying: “He left as soon as he had taken his last gulp of tea. I already arranged for some chocolates and an apology note.”</p>
<p>Mycroft stretched his lips further. He felt like the perfect fool. At least Anthea was too polite to remark on it.</p>
<p>The rest of the afternoon was conducted in the same way. Mycroft found out that people tended to meet his requests much more quickly if he smiled at them. Perhaps all these self-help books were right — <em>if one smiles at life, life smiles back </em>and all that. Although his colleagues seemed more shaken than cheerful, now that he thought about it.</p>
<p>Mycroft didn’t come to regret his choice until later that night when he had to face his brother.</p>
<p>Sherlock, contrary to most Englishmen, had no shame in expressing his every thought. He was already exulting with joy when Mycroft appeared on his landing.</p>
<p>“I see you are positively giddy with happiness,” Sherlock said triumphantly. “Your jowls are quivering with it.”</p>
<p>Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s comments but his lips didn’t move an iota. As much as he hated these petty remarks, it would prove much more embarrassing if Sherlock was to witness papers flying around his brother and ordering him to smile. Mycroft would never live it down.</p>
<p>Or worse still, Sherlock would take Mycroft for his new guinea pig. This was a mystery which was sure to entertain him. Mycroft had no interest in becoming another ‘client’, another fool who had to be rescued by the famous detective.</p>
<p>“You will not have to put up with this sight for much longer. I only ask that you call back Mummy to confirm your arrival on Christmas Day.” Mycroft huffed while keeping a bright smile on his face. “She has already imagined twenty reasons why you couldn’t get to the phone, each one more terrible than the last.”</p>
<p>“She’s finally developed an imagination, then,” Sherlock replied airily, but the tense line of his shoulders told another story.</p>
<p>Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly until his frustration ebbed. </p>
<p>John chose that moment to appear in the lounge. He had an apologetic look on his face, the one he always wore when Sherlock had just said something rude. </p>
<p>Then his eyes reached Mycroft and he blinked in confusion. “What— uhh, I mean— Tea?” He asked, stumbling over his words, his face reddening.</p>
<p>“I think what John wanted to say was — what happened to your face, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked in a sickly sweet voice. Seeing John’s expression, he added: “What? I was only trying to help!”</p>
<p>Mycroft rubbed his mouth with one hand. This was worse than the time he had improvised all the roles of Macbeth in a desperate effort to convince the director to include drama in the high school curriculum.</p>
<p>“Thank you for the offer, Doctor, but I’m afraid I should be going,” Mycroft gritted out. He tried out another smile, hoping it came out polite and not as awkward as he felt. “Evening.”</p>
<p>As he walked down the stairs two at a time, his ears picked up on the first tendrils of a fight between his brother and Dr Watson. He made a mental note to have some scotch sent over tomorrow. It would certainly help soothe the poor doctor’s nerves.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>